


The way that I love you

by WritingRevolutionary



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexual Roger Davis, Canon Jewish Character, Established Relationship, Fluff, HIV/AIDS, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Rent, bisexual mark cohen, sort of but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28050159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingRevolutionary/pseuds/WritingRevolutionary
Summary: No-one ever seemed to understand why it was that Roger chose Mark. Why he chose him over the countless others. Why have him when he could have women? After Mimi and April. After years of never thinking of Mark as anything more than a friend. They didn’t realise that Roger thought that deep down, he had probably always loved Mark. And loved him the most all along.
Relationships: Mark Cohen/Roger Davis
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The way that I love you

No-one ever seemed to understand why it was that Roger chose Mark. Why he chose him over the countless others. Why have him when he could have women? After Mimi and April. After years of never thinking of Mark as anything more than a friend, how could he love him, the way he said he did now?

They didn’t realise that Roger thought that deep down, he had probably always loved Mark. And loved him the most all along. But he had been with April, and Mark with Maureen, and then along came Mimi. Him and Mark just took a little time to find their moment. But now that they’d found it, he wasn’t ever letting Mark go. Maybe part of Roger had been scared of it. Whether of his bisexuality or of his loving Mark he wasn’t sure. With liking girls, guys had never come up before. They’d never had to. He’d never had to worry. But Mark was different. In a way he couldn’t ignore. In a way that left him unable to function properly without him and made him stop caring about what anyone else might think. He never thought he would care about something like that, but he had. Until Mark became the first boyfriend that is. It was the first time Roger hadn’t been able to ignore how attractive a man was, or how he made him feel, and not do anything about it, because eventually a girl would come along instead and that was undoubtedly more acceptable to lead singer with an image to maintain. More acceptable to society, and to the voice of Roger’s father who still made the occasional unwanted appearance in his thoughts. But Mark was special, and Mark had washed all that away. Maybe it was because Mark was the first person he’d ever truly, loved. He’d known it before Mark kissed him for the first time, and that kiss had only confirmed it. Mark had made him brave, and Mark had left him wanting more. Wanting everything. 

When people questioned why he was with Mark, it was always over the physical aspects. If Roger found women attractive, what could a man, especially a man like Mark, have to offer him. What would a man like Roger find desirable about another man? Why trade in the possibility of a having a ‘normal’ relationship, without all the stigma of a relationship with another man, just for Mark? 

But to Roger, Mark was truly beautiful. And Roger was inexplicably drawn to him. He was all sharp angles and sinewy muscle, hip bones and collar bones prominent, ribs showing slightly beneath the skin – the results of being naturally slim anyway, as well as currently slightly underfed. He didn’t have smooth skin, or soft curves like the women he’d been with before. He was better. When Roger squeezed his hips, or pressed against his chest, there was no give. There was a resistance there, a roughness, that grounded him in his surroundings instead of drowning him in dreams. There was just him and Mark, and no pretence. He had a sharp jawline, and light stubble that scraped Roger’s neck, his chest, his thighs as he kissed him. His hands were large and rough, and they could pin Roger down and leave bruises on his skin. His nails were blunt as he grabbed Roger’s arms or scraped against his back, and his teeth were sharp as he bit Roger’s beck or shoulder. His hair was long enough to pull and grip onto, but short enough to stay out of the way. He could cling to Mark as tight as possible without feeling as though he would break him. And for all of those reasons he loved him. And loved the feel of him. Because Mark was strong, and rough, and gave as good as he got. There was something different about men. Something different about Mark.

And still people seemed to question how he could even want, let alone love, Mark, who was introverted, detached, often bitter and sometimes argumentative, when he had loved women like April, who was loud and outgoing and vivacious, and Mimi, who was gentle, and sexy and relentlessly optimistic. 

Sure, Mark was quiet, and awkward and nervous and neurotic, looking at life through his camera rather than through his own eyes. A barrier between himself and reality. Hiding. But then, Roger did the same with his music and his rock star act. And it wasn’t quite true of Mark either. Because he didn’t just observe. He wanted to expose injustice and wipe out prejudice. And with his friends, with Roger, he was loud and proud, and he spoke out. He stopped being Mark Cohen, the shy, nerdy Jewish kid from Scarsdale, and became Mark Cohen, the unapologetic bohemian, a starving artist making a name for himself in the big city with the junkies and the queers and the homeless and the drag queens, which himself and his friends numbered among. Like Roger, Mark was artistic. Creative. He wanted to leave his mark on the world. He’d wanted to leave home and break out and live freely. And make a difference. He’d stuck with Roger through his darkest moments and never left his side. 

And if Mark wasn’t quiet, and observant, and neurotic, he wouldn’t know Roger half as well as he did. More than anyone else Roger knew. He wouldn’t understand Roger better than he understood himself. Because he wouldn’t have been able to learn every tone of his voice, every coping mechanism, every look, and know when Roger needed to be left alone, or held, or when he was angry, or anxious, or tired of life. And he wouldn’t be able to help Roger the way he helped him, reminding him to take his AZT, or encouraging him to leave the house, or listening to his half-written songs. And if Mark wasn’t awkward, or nervous, Roger wouldn’t find him as charming as he did, or want to go out of his way to put him at ease and make him happy like he did. Those hangovers of Scarsdale Mark, which for whatever reason people seemed to find objectionable, were as beautiful a part of him to Roger as any of the new aspects of New York Mark, which Roger had seen develop in the time he had known him, and they were just as big a part of the reason he loved him as their shared bohemian ideals and dreams, which people seemed to dismiss when questioning their compatibility. 

And together they created a Mark which Roger found irresistible. Mark who was worth all the questions and assumptions. Roger lived for the moments when they would walk the streets of New York, his arm slung lazily across Mark’s shoulder, pulling him close and smiling at anything Mark had to say while Mark chatted and gesticulated, eyes shining. And whenever they caught a glare, or a cough, or a slur aimed in their direction he would flip off the offending person and pull Mark into an obscenely passionate kiss just to piss them off, cradling his face in his hands or grabbing his arse, and Mark would laugh, and roll his eyes, and let him. And Roger was grateful for all the times Mark came to his life support meetings, holding his hand, and keeping it together whenever Roger broke down as soon as they made it back to the loft. And he in turn would comfort Mark whenever the thought that he might only have Roger with him for another couple of months loomed particularly large on the horizon. He needed Mark, plain and simple. And Mark needed him.

And maybe Mark wasn’t a woman, and maybe Mark wasn’t like the people Roger had dated before. But maybe that was why he felt like he needed Mark to breathe. Why he felt content, knowing that Mark was the person he would be with for the rest of his life. Why he knew he could die happy, knowing that Mark would be by his side when it happened. Why he loved Mark as much as he did. And why he felt as though as long he loved Mark, and Mark loved him, nothing else mattered. Even if no-one else saw it, or understood it, or thought he was disgusting, or desperate or lying to himself and leading Mark on, it didn’t matter. Because Roger knew, and Mark knew, that he thought that Mark was perfect. And that he loved him simply for being Mark. And that he loved Mark more than anyone else he’d ever loved or ever would love in his short time left on earth. And that even after death, he would love him still.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my last Rent fic, the title for this is taken from the song 'You don't need to love me' from the musical If/Then and sung by Lucas, a character originated by Anthony Rapp. It's also slightly inspired by the Christopher Isherwood quote: 'Why do I prefer boys? Because of their shape and their voices and their smell and the way they move. And boys can be so romantic. I can put them into my myth and fall in love with them'.


End file.
